


Not Yet

by loststardust



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, honestly a very different alfie than im used to but, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loststardust/pseuds/loststardust
Summary: A storm takes your date with Alfie from good, to better - with a few bumps along the road, of course.
Relationships: Alfie Solomons/Original Female Character(s), Alfie Solomons/Reader, Alfie Solomons/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 67





	Not Yet

It was only meant to be few drinks. 

At first, it was, but then you suggested going to another place, for another few drinks. Then it was Alfie’s turn to pick, so you went there, for another few drinks. Before you knew it, you were drunk. Absolutely, shit-faced drunk, and so was he. By your standards that meant the date was going well. Or rather, it had gone well, and now you were so far over your limits that ‘date’ was hardly an appropriate description. The lines had gotten blurred somewhere between this pub and the last. The formalities had dropped, the careful flirting abandoned. Now, it didn’t feel like you were getting to know him, or even like you had to. It’s like you’ve been together for months. The liquor’s tricked you both into it. 

‘Here, here, out you go, that’s it,’ Alfie says, holding the door open for you. You stumble past him, tripping over his feet despite the room available. You cling to him, move around him, stick by him like he’s got a spring clipped to your belt. There’s space for you to leave side by side, but you drag him after you in single-file instead.

‘You sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?’ you say over your shoulder, pushing open the second, and final door into the street. 

‘Yeah, love,’ he answers. ‘I don’t think you’d survive another one.’

When you step down onto the pavement, your arms fly up, forearms crossing above your head. It’s raining lightly, but you took so long on your hair that any amount of moisture is a personal, and violent, attack to your being. ‘Oh, fuck,’ you curse, stepping back instinctively. ‘Alf, it’s raining.’

His hands go to your shoulders; you’ve walked backwards into him, but he doesn’t push you away again, just holds you still so you don’t throw the both of you off balance. ‘Nah,’ he says, looking up to the dark sky. ‘Just drizzle, innit. I’ve had stronger pisses.’

You scoff, giving him what you’re sure is a massively over-animated scowl, but you can’t rein it back if you tried. Every expression plasters itself onto your face before your mind has time to consider it. ‘Still,’ you whine, ‘can’t we get a car?’

‘A car?’ His eyebrows lift, then, his chin drops so his lips are by your ear. His beard tickles the skin that’s left unprotected by the collar of your coat. ‘Here I was, yeah, thinking you were a tough one,’ he teases, failing to shy when you attempt to shrug him away. ‘Scared of a little rain, are we, pet?’ 

His voice hums past your ear, the low tone leaves goosebumps along your cheek. 

‘Get off, you pest,’ you laugh, slapping his arm lightly. ‘Fine, we’ll walk.’ You step away from him, just to turn back and point a warning finger in his general direction. ‘But when we’re piss-wet through, you can’t say a word. You have to remember what I looked like before.’ 

He holds his palms to the side, cane swinging from the crook of his arm. ‘What would I have to say, hm? Besides that you look lovely, of course, fucking lovely.’

You snort. The raindrops pill on your lapel. ‘Besides that, yeah.’ 

‘And, right, I’m sure, yeah, that you’ll look even lovelier when you’re we—‘

‘Shall we walk?’ You interrupt, offering him your hand. 'Let’s walk, Alfie.’

He laughs, finally stepping down from the doorway of the pub, and into line with you. Your hands lock together and then he’s pushing the both of them, still joined, into the pocket of his coat. ‘Keep ‘em warm,’ he says, catching the surprise on your face. ‘You’ve never been with a proper gentleman, have you?'

‘None like you,’ you answer. 

No-one quite like Alfie has ever taken you out, you aren’t sure anyone similar even exists. You’ve known him for little over a month and he’s repeatedly caught you off guard. The second you get familiar with how he acts, he changes again, not that you mind. In fact, the only thing you knew about him for certain was that he was unpredictable, and you liked that. You’re bored of men that prove you right. 

Alfie sets the pace and you follow keenly, though, it’s less of a walk and more of an amble. He doesn’t say where you’re going, but you can only assume it’s home. As much as you’re enjoying yourself, it’s the best option for the both of you, you need water and bed. Maybe some bread to line your stomach. The rain continues but it’s still light enough, and you’re still drunk enough, to forget about it. You let it dampen your hair without complaint.

‘Do you actually use that?’ you ask, nodding to his other arm. 

‘What? This?’ He lifts the cane in his free hand. ‘Course, I do, when I have to. Why? Did you think I just have it for fun, yeah?’

You shrug, though your limbs are so weighty from the drink that it barely registers as movement. ‘Could’ve been for intimidation purposes,’ you offer. ‘Or fashion.’

‘Fashion?’ His voice peaks, almost bursting through to laughter. ‘Fucking fashion?’

‘What? It could’ve!’

‘You are a right fucking sort, love. You really are.’ He laughs, head shaking, and tugs you along. ‘Fashion. I don’t fucking know, the things you come out with…’

‘You’ve laughed a lot tonight,’ you comment, the thought slipping out between the things you actually wanted to say. ‘It suits you.’ You’ve never heard him laugh so much, nor as fully. He laughs like a schoolboy. Giggles like he’s been told not to. 

‘Yeah, well, you’re funny, aren’t you?’ He looks across at you fondly, or drunkenly. There might not be a difference. ‘Can’t be serious all the time, right,’ he rambles, ‘you wouldn’t like me much if I was.’

You snort, but nod. Seeing him lighter, relaxed, has only added to the attraction you have for him. He could’ve sat there and laughed at nothing all night and you would still be smitten. 

‘So, what about that?’ he asks. ‘You use that, yeah?’ He’s dipping his head toward you, gesturing to something on your person. 

‘Use what?’ You look down, and back to him, then down again like you missed something.

‘Your little purse, there.’

‘My purse?’ You lift it from where it’s been sat against your hip. The movement shakes water onto your feet. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Cause, yeah,’ he starts, ‘if I remember rightly, hm, I paid for everything you drank tonight. And mine.’

You scoff and turn to him with your mouth open. 

‘So, I was wondering, right, what I was going to say, was is that just for fashion or—‘

‘I offered!’ You bump your shoulder into his. ‘Don’t be cruel.’

‘I don’t remember.’ He’s frowning, but it’s false. The smirk he’s wearing betrays him. ‘And I think, yeah, that I would remember if a pretty lady offered to buy me a drink.’

‘Oh really?’ You lift your eyebrows, playing along now, just for the sake of it. ‘Is that cause it never happens, Alfie?’ You pout for him. ‘Pretty ladies never take you out?’ 

He laughs again and then, like he’s planned it, the weather changes. Or rather, intensifies. The rain goes from un-bothersome to downright rude. It slaps against the road, your shoulders, your face. It picks up so quickly that you almost feel winded.

‘Oh my God,’ you gasp, shrinking into his side. ‘Alfie, what the fuck.’

‘Yeah, now that, that is some fucking rain, love.’ His shoulders lift, like that’ll protect him from the weather. ‘I don’t think we’re dodging this, pet.’

‘Come on.’ You tug at his hand, which is still warm and dry, and wrapped around yours in his pocket. ‘Faster, please.’

‘Come on where? I’m walking you.’ He laughs the words, having to push them louder above the sound of the rain. ‘This ways quicker, right, trust me.’ 

He turns down the next road and you follow because, well, you do trust him. And, because the rain is pelting it down and you fucking hate that. He could walk you into the nearest whorehouse and you’d say, ‘thank-you so much, Alfie, this is just where I wanted to be.' 

Ten minutes later and you’re standing by the front-door of his house, though you don’t know that’s where you are, until he starts fumbling with his over-stocked keyring. He flicks through all of them twice, before picking the right one from the bunch. 

‘Yeah, no rush, Alf,’ you say, more amused than serious. ‘I’m fine here, just fine. Actually, I love being freezing cold and dripping wet, so take your time.’

‘Listen, yeah,’ he glances at you as he pushes the key into the lock, ‘any more, and I’ll put you in Cyril’s house round the back, ey? How will that suit the lady?’

‘That’d be grand, Alfie.’ 

The door opens and you hurry to get inside, giving him no chance to invite you. If you had any manners left, you’d have waited, but the rain has washed you free of them. You’re so cold, and so wet, that you don’t really care if you’re being rude. You don’t even feel awkward about being stood in Alfie’s hallway, gracing his home for the very first time. 

‘There.’ He shuts the door behind him, twisting the secondary latch to lock it. ‘That’s better, innit. Nice and dry.’ 

You shudder. The warmth hasn’t greeted you yet. ‘Is there a fire?’

‘Through there, love.’ He goes to move past you but then reconsiders, stopping in front of you with his hands out. ‘Here, give me your coat, yeah, take your shoes off.’ 

Turning, you let him grab the collar of your coat and pull it from your shoulders. It puts up a fight; it’s wet-through and clinging, but he tugs it off eventually and hangs it up for you. You feel lighter without it. When he’s back, and you’re facing him again, you bend at the waist, leaning on his offered-hand for support. You un-tie one shoe and then the other. Once they’re off, he takes those too, picking them up and carrying them into the next room with him. 

‘She’s very good, Annie, my house lady,’ he says, talking as he walks. ‘Keeps the fire lit, don’t even have to ask her. Just knows, doesn’t she, knows when the house should be warm.’

‘You must pay her well,’ you comment, watching as he puts your shoes on the bricks before the fireplace. ‘Thank-you.’

He waves off your thanks. ‘Pay her well enough, yeah. Should probably pay her more.’

You stop next to him and hold your palms to the flames that Annie has prepared. The heat welcomes you. It sinks into your hands, then your face, then the aching cold between your joints. ‘God, that is nice,’ you sigh. ‘I don’t think I’d have lasted til my house.’

Alfie nods. He’s staring into the fire, still in his outerwear, and rubbing a hand through his beard. Where his minds gone, you’ve no idea. Maybe the sudden change in temperatures has shortcut his circuits.

‘You’re leaving puddles,’ you say, stirring him. 

‘Oh, right, yeah.’ He looks down, nodding, and begins to peel off the layers. ‘I was just thinking, that if the rain doesn’t stop, yeah, well, you could stay the night. If you wanted to.’

It’s odd, he seems almost shy about suggesting it. The Alfie that convinced you to go out with him would’ve laughed at the Alfie you’re seeing now. 

‘Or,’ he continues, ‘or, well, I could just order you a car. There is that option.’

‘I don’t mind staying.’ You smile and he nods again, hand returning to his beard. ‘What are you thinking about?’ you ask, curious to the cogs that twist his mind so far from the room. ‘You look worried.’

‘Me? Nah, nah.’ He shakes his head quickly, turning to dump his coat and scarf onto the nearest armchair. They won’t dry like that but he doesn’t seem to care. ‘Just thinking about the logistics, yeah.’

‘The logistics?’

He hums in agreement.

‘The logistics,’ you drawl, ‘of me spending the night?’

‘Well, when you put it like that, it is gonna sound odd, isn’t it?’ he replies, huffing slightly. ‘Don’t worry yourself, alright, you just focus on getting warm, yeah? Stand closer.’

He holds your biceps from behind and pushes you forward a step. You laugh, saying his name once, before watching him disappear from the room. His strangeness didn’t drop off at the doorstep, then. He carries it with him even at home. 

You stand where he put you, but let your eyes wander in his absence. The room, which you can only assume is his main living space, is absolutely as you’d expect it. The furniture is littered with fabrics, rugs and blankets that he’s no-doubt brought home from his travels. Picture frames dot across the walls, only a few of them sitting straight, and the dark-green paper fills any blank spots with a quiet depth. It’s a dim room, lit with just a few lamps and the fire, but it is inviting. Cluttered, but controlled enough to feel like intention sat beneath every trinket. 

When you hear his footsteps returning, you face the doorway and wait. He arrives shortly after, with what looks like his entire wardrobe bundled into his arms. You raise an eyebrow as he crosses to your side of the room. 

‘Thought you might want something else to wear,’ he explains. ‘Your coat did a better job than mine at keeping you dry, yeah, but I wanted to offer. It won’t do us any good to sit in wet clothes.’ 

‘Are you always like this?’ you ask, feeling the corners of your lips twist upwards. You don’t mean to laugh at him but, well, he’s being so sweet that you can’t help it. You never thought you’d call him cute but now it bubbles on your tongue, waiting to get out. 

‘Like what, love?’ He hands you a shirt. ‘That one alright, yeah?’

You take it, nodding before you’ve even looked it over. If it fits him, it’ll fit you. ‘I don’t know,’ you say, ‘you’re, well, you’re faffing, Alfie.’

He pauses. There’s four or five shirts in his hands still. ‘Faffing?’

‘Y’know, you’re being very attentive. It’s sweet, I’ve just never seen you so…’ You gesture vaguely in the air, hoping to mimic the way he’s been flitting about the house. 

When he snorts, you can’t help but relax slightly. You were almost positive you’d offended him. But instead he’s smiling, and putting the shirts over his shoulder as he approaches. ‘Can’t I look after my guest?’ he starts. ‘Hmm?’ He puts a hand on your waist, and the other wanders to brush across your cheek, to drop down and along your collarbone. ‘Can’t I keep my lovely date happy, yeah, and help her dry off from the rain?’

Now it’s your turn to look nervous, though maybe you feel it more than you look it. The walk here had stripped you of some drunkenness and, with him so close, you see that it took some of your confidence with it. Washed it down the drains with the weather. 

‘I just like things to be proper,’ he says. His voice has dropped lower, quieter. A soft rumbling between you. ‘You’ve never been here before, yeah, so how would it look, if you was to feel uncomfortable, if you were not looked after in the proper way?’

You wet your lips. If he wants an answer from you, he shouldn’t have stood so close. All you can think about is the warmth from his chest, the smell of rain in his hair, the brush of heat against your face every time that he talks. The rum behind his words. The curl of his moustache, just long enough to go over his lip. 

‘You in there, love?’ he asks. 

‘I think I want you to kiss me, Alfie,’ you say quickly, flashing the idea between a hurried breath. ‘I definitely want you to.’

Any other man, any other bloody man in the world, would’ve done it. He would’ve obliged. A drunk girl in a half-wet blouse, asking to be kissed, is standing in his living room and all Alfie does is squint, and hold your cheek like you’re one of the wonders he’s collected.

‘You’re very special, aren’t you. Yeah. Different,’ he mutters. ‘Normally, yeah, well, normally women can’t fucking stand me. But you, you just want.’

‘Want what?’ 

‘More.’ He’s still watching you closely, his thumb moving so slowly against your face that you can barely feel it. ‘You want more of me than the rest.’

‘Is that a crime?’ you ask, though you’d meant to just think it, not say it. 

The stillness breaks, his hand falling away as he gives a short laugh. ‘Well,’ he says, shrugging, ‘probably should be, shouldn’t it? If we’re honest. I mean, look at me, yeah, then look at you. That’s fucking criminal, love.’

You roll your eyes. ‘Please, Alf.’ 

‘Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, darling.’ He steps back, pulling the shirts from his shoulder as he walks to the sofa across from you. ‘Now, don’t look,’ he says, ‘wouldn’t want to scare you off.’

He’s got his back to you, but you don’t look away. Instead, you frown at his shoulders, watching as he begins to unbutton the shirt he’s in. 

‘Scare me off?’ you repeat.

His actions slow, the line of his shoulders drops either side of him. ‘Yeah.’ He pauses just long enough to make you think he’s uncomfortable, or maybe even afraid. But that sounds ridiculous once you say it back to yourself.

You move toward him. Without shoes, your footsteps are barely audible. 

‘Well,’ he answers eventually, ‘not very pretty, really, all the scars.’

You say his name again, from behind him, and he turns to meet you. His shirt is open, loose over his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but sighs, as if he’s been caught and now has to suffer the punishment. Though, there is none. There’s nothing he could show you that would be deserving of it, you’d accepted the scars he carried the moment you agreed to date him. 

Cautiously, you take the edge of his shirt between your thumb and forefinger. Through the gap in cotton, all you see is chest hair, and freckles from the sun. When he doesn’t stop you, you pull the shirt to the side and carry it off his shoulder. There’s a scar on his chest, in your eye-line, another by his ribs. Some are big, raised, others smaller and disappearing. You put your palm flat and follow them down. You trace the marks. You show him they mean nothing; it’s all just ink on the page. 

Before he fully relaxes into it, he remembers himself, and holds you still by the wrist. 

‘Nothing scary ‘bout them,’ you mumble, stumbling your words ahead of his.

‘Look, you need to change, love. You’ll catch a cold.’

‘I’m fine,’ you insist. You haven’t felt the chill since he touched your waist by the fire. ‘Why won’t you let me?’ 

The more affection you give, the more he resists. The more you want to touch him, the further he steps back. 

‘Let you what?’

‘Don’t you want me?’ You don’t mean to ask it, but it falls from your tongue before you can stop yourself. The doubt that had begun to creep into the base of your skull, had now fallen between you in one embarrassing, desperate motion. 

For a breath, he looks hurt. Torn. Then, he puts the stoicism back onto his features, and ushers you toward the fire. ‘Love, I’m just wanting you wrapped up, yeah? I can’t settle with—‘

‘Fuck’s sake, Alfie.’ You pull away from him. ‘Stop mothering me.’

Now you’re apart, his hand goes to his shirt, pulling it back over his shoulder before he speaks again. ‘Can’t we just…’ He sighs. He pushes his hair back. He attempts to salvage the evening that was quickly falling away from you both. ‘Listen, pet, let's just say goodnight.’

You scoff. ‘Can’t we just say goodnight? Fucking hell, Alfie, if you don’t want me here, why offer?’

‘And if you aren’t gonna listen, yeah,’ he replies quickly, ‘why talk? It’s not that I don’t want you, right, it’s that the circumstance,’ he drags the words out, gesturing between you, ‘begs for some reconsideration.’

It isn’t making sense to you yet, so you stare at him with your eyebrows raised, waiting for more.

He clears his throat. ‘It’s not exactly usual, is it, yeah, that you would find yourself stuck here, with me, waiting for the rain to stop, so you can leave.’

‘That’s not what’s happening.’

‘I don’t want any pressure on you,’ he says, ‘none at all. That’s what it is, pet, that’s all it is. Just consideration.’

‘And what if I said there was no pressure?’

‘I’d say, yeah, that it’s worth waiting to make sure.’ He lifts his arm, crossing the distance you’d forced between you, to touch your bicep gently. ‘If you still want me in the morning, I’m yours, love, but not yet, alright?’

You nod. You can’t argue with him now, not when everything he’s done since you’ve stepped through his door, has been in your best interest. Not when you’ve been so full of drink, and need, and wanton carelessness that you hadn’t even realised. You’d really stood before a man that had showed nothing but care, and demanded to know if he wanted to sleep with you or not. 

‘Sorry,’ you say quietly, ‘I was being bratty.’

‘Nah,’ the word bursts out of him, so loud you jump slightly. ‘Don’t be silly.’ His mood’s switched so instantly, that you’re wide-eyed, then frowning, and then smiling — all in the time he’s taken to finish his sentence. ‘We’ve had enough rum to put a fucking horse to sleep, love.’

‘You have,’ you add, feeling easier already. ‘I could hardly keep up.’

‘Bloody good effort, though. Damn near had me.’ 

You laugh. He’s lying, you both know it, but you’re just happy to be joking again. Relieved to know you’re still getting on. ‘You know,’ you say, once you’d begun to simmer, ‘I really didn’t expect you to be so soft.’

‘Soft?’ He turns his head, like he’s bashful, before meeting you again with that same fond expression from before. ‘Just takes a certain kind of person, innit, to bring it out. Otherwise, it just stays down there, under all the shit.’

‘Well,’ you smile, ‘I’m glad to see it.’ 

You’re glad to know you’re wrong yet again. To know that every presumption you could make about him, would be false. That he can be hard, but soft too, that he can be rough with his words, but still care beneath them. If you had any hopes of leaving this house unattached, with your heart firmly in place, they were long gone. One taste of him, and you’re addicted. He was right when he said you wanted more. 

‘We should go to bed,’ you say. ‘Then it’ll be morning, and we can make sure I still want you.’


End file.
